


Assumptions in Thought

by koifish



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Bad Poetry, Drabble, Gen, References to Drugs, Strexcorp is Evil, i wrote this like a year+ ago, lots of previous fanon assumptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:34:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6909517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koifish/pseuds/koifish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Kevin thinks too much and goes about his morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assumptions in Thought

**Author's Note:**

> so a friend convinced me that i should post my junk. this one in particulate is like, a year+ old and has a lot of fanon/speculative assumptions about strex that im not even sure i believe in anymore but hey. thanks.

It surges through your skin, under your nails, into your eyes. But it never hurts, you don't recall what that even feels like, or if you even knew the feeling to begin with. Everyone made sure that every day was so pleasant and filled with the sunshine from their Smiling God, there was no need for hurt when your days were so wonderful. They did such a good job those people. People that left notes and manuscripts and flyers and pills and blood, so much blood, on your desk in the morning with your coffee at the station. Pages printed in familiar yellows with triangles and smiles and stained in such a deep color adding texture and life to the sheets in your hands as you mulled over the information they contained. Announcements of praise and regulations and laws that kept people out of the red, kept the red inside, instead of spilling outwards into unproductive actions and thoughts and kept people on track, in line, like the triangles that embellished every building and person and object in town. 

You remember very little as you read and spread the information through the waves of space into the ears of those who live in your town. It doesn't feel the same as earlier, you don't feel anything in your skin or under your nails or in your eye but sharing your Voice feels right. The way it rings through the booth and projects back in through your headphones leaves a calming agent that feels better than any pill or injection they've ever given you for dreams or stress. There is a pain in your head as your thoughts deviate from your show, you should concentrate, this is important. The news, is important. Your show, is important. You. 

You are probably important. Your voice is the means by which the information travels. You share and expand their world without even truly knowing what lies beyond the desert sand. Not that you are interested in anything but the sand. All the pieces it is made up of, fragments and ruins of former somethings and someones, stained in any color imaginable but together still a constant tan spread across the horizon. Bleached as the sun bakes each grain with unrelenting heat, crushing any idea of being anything more than a piece of a whole, a piece of something so much larger than any grain of sand could hope to be.

But sand doesn't think. And neither should you. You flick off the microphone and set your headset onto the table. The news is over, and it is time for another pill. 

And it surges through your skin, under your nails, into your eyes. 

And you feel everything at once and your lips pull into a smile.

And you are happy.

Probably.


End file.
